


epistemological paradigms of interpersonal relations, or, seducing a member of your fireteam: a thesis

by downamongthedeadmen



Series: young vanguards [2]
Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: Academic Blowjobs, Anal Sex... with the Light, Friends to Lovers, Hot for Robot, M/M, Typical Warlock vs. Titan Bullying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-26
Updated: 2017-12-26
Packaged: 2019-02-21 20:40:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13151631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/downamongthedeadmen/pseuds/downamongthedeadmen
Summary: Before they became the Vanguard, they had to start somewhere small: Osiris, student of Lord Felwinter, and Saint-14, dutiful son of the Speaker.





	epistemological paradigms of interpersonal relations, or, seducing a member of your fireteam: a thesis

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tanyart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tanyart/gifts).



> a loving gift to tanya who demanded many moons ago for osiris to "get dicked by a strong titan exo". happy dawning ya absolute legend, here's osiris and saint-14 as the guardian equivalent of college students. THANKS TERRY FOR THE TITLE.

Saint-14 peers around a row of bookshelves belonging to the largest library he's ever been inside. It's more of a museum, really. He doesn't think the average library has bisected displays of various alien races, or lit braziers, or planetary devices that gently hover off the floor and spin on their axes.

He spots the young Guardian he'd hoped to see perched atop a rectangular table with his back to the door, legs swung over the edge and idly kicking. Why Warlocks never sit like normal people, Saint would have to ask his father.

His target's completely enthralled by an ancient-looking textbook, likely pre-Golden Age. It doesn’t seem like he’s aware of Saint just yet. 

Perfect. Saint grins, or tries to, anyway. It’s difficult when your jaw is capable of only two directions: up and down.

He moves inside as quietly as he can with heavy boots and flinches when the automatic doors loudly slide shut. Osiris looks up from his book, and without turning around he calls, “Saint-14?”

Again when the number. It’s like they aren't friends or something. “How’d you know it was me?” he asks, only a little put out.

“Only a Titan would make so much noise trying to sneak up on someone.” Osiris glances over his shoulder. His short black hair is a mess and Saint swears his enhanced vision points out several grey strands. He’s definitely tired; there are darker bags under his eyes than Saint remembers seeing from days ago. Saint also notices a few empty tea cups scattered around the other tables, all of them from a set he’s sure belongs to Osiris. 

“When was the last time you slept?” Saint sternly asks, marching over to the table Osiris occupies. He has to pace around a pile of books and papers that either slid off the edge or were carelessly discarded.

Osiris blinks owlishly at him, like he doesn't understand the question. “What day is it?”

“Osiris!”

“Ah, wait, no,” Osiris mumbles to himself, tapping his chin. “Yes, I did transmat that assignment. Crisis averted.”

Saint wishes he’d brought him more than just dessert. He doubts Osiris has eaten dinner; his student robes seem to hang off his thin frame like they're suspended by only a few nails. "Happy night-after-exams," Saint says gently, sliding a colorful box across the table. 

Osiris raises a brow that's quickly joined by its twin, his expression shifting from one of curiosity to delight. And then confusion. And then, to Saint's dismay, suspicion. "Baklava?" he inquires in the tone of someone who might ask, "A gun?" 

"Yes?" Saint hesitates. "Did I get the wrong kind? I wasn't sure if you preferred rosewater or honey. Or if you liked hazelnuts." Maybe it's the brand. Maybe Osiris has a vendetta against this particular bakery.

"I haven't received a gift in a long time," Osiris replies slowly. "Not one that came without a cost, anyway."

Now Saint is dismayed _and_ feeling a little foolish. "No cost," he promises. "Just thinking of you."

Osiris watches him. It's said that Hunters have the keenest eyes that pinpoint your every weakness, and Saint believed that until he met Osiris, whose eyes could dissect you cleaner than any scalpel. "I see." He lifts the lid off the box of pastries and pops a diamond-shaped piece into his mouth. Delicate flakes flutter from his fingertips and land in his lap. "Thank you, Saint," says Osiris, sucking a bit of sugar off his thumb. Saint shifts from one foot to the other. 

"No problem," he replies. "Shouldn't you be, I don't know -- relaxing? You've had a long three weeks' worth of tests." 

"I _am_ relaxing." Osiris frowns, crumpling up a wax wrapper and tossing it into the incinerator nearby. "I'm reading for pleasure."

Saint is fond of reading, too, but he can't imagine most people poring over -- he leans to the side to read the title of the book -- _Theoretical Astrophysics: A Study_ and finding it _relaxing_. "It's three in the morning, Osiris."

"I wasn't aware," Osiris returns dryly. "Which begs the question: why are _you_ up this late?"

"You know I don't sleep. And I was..." Saint pauses, choosing his words carefully. "Father's been working late, and I'm restless until he retires for the night. I didn't have time to bring dessert to you during the day, so I asked around and found out you were still up."

Osiris would usually mock any mention of the Speaker, but this time he just nods in exhaustion. Perhaps he's just glad to have something to eat, judging by the way he quickly bites into another pastry. The motor in Saint's chassis quietly whirs in sympathy. 

“Stay with me a while longer?” Osiris waves an arm at a large nest of mismatched pillows in the corner of the room not far from where he’s sitting, sandwiched between two bookshelves. The pillows lie atop an ornate carpet that’s in excellent condition. Saint even spots a folded blanket. A place for students to nap, perhaps? “We haven’t had much time to talk.” 

Orbital plates shift upward in pleasant surprise. Saint says, humbly, “I’d like to, if you're not too exhausted.”

“Never for you,” Osiris returns.

He makes his way to the cozy little corner after dodging another floating device and what appears to be an incomplete Ahamkara skeleton, and hesitates. His armor is spotless, but the cushions look far too delicate to recline on in full gear. He can just picture himself trying to lie back and getting covered in an explosion of feathers. 

Saint jogs over to the corner opposite of the makeshift pillow fort. “Give me a moment,” he calls back to his friend, and begins to make an orderly pile of gear starting with his pauldrons. 

He reaches behind his back to unbuckle the straps of his cuirass when he’s caught off-guard by warm hands that still his. “Let me help,” Osiris insists. Their fingers brush when Saint lowers his arms. 

Saint stands at attention as Osiris fiddles with belts and mutters under his breath about “unnecessary straps” as if he can talk with the heavy robes and jewelry he struts about in. Either by chance or design, he tugs a little too rough on the suspender that hooks the cuirass to the faulds and jerks Saint backward. He stumbles into Osiris’s arms. “Careful,” Osiris grunts as he steadies Saint.

A metallic thud on the floor behind him signals that Osiris’s suffering is over as soon as it began. He pats Saint’s shoulder like an afterthought and leaves him to do the rest. 

With the weight of so much steel and leather gone, Saint sighs. More often than not he’s clad in full armor, even off duty. Very few people have ever seen him like this: dressed in only a thermal sweater and pants. He feels naked in a way that is difficult to describe, and a little vulnerable, too. 

Despite his mild anxiety, it feels absolutely wonderful for Saint to just lie back and melt into the cushions, hands behind his head and knees pulled up. Osiris reclines on his side next to him, bracing himself on a forearm with his other arm resting on the carpet. “Would you like a piece?” he asks, tapping the lid of the pastry box. 

Saint politely shakes his head. “They’re for you,” he says. He’s been curious of the taste, sure, but he doesn’t need to ingest anything else tonight. He’s already dreading maintenance in the morning. Because while it’s delicious, food isn’t necessary for Exo -– it’s more of a social activity to bond with their flesh-and-blood companions. 

“You’re missing out,” Osiris cajoles. He picks up a flaky pastry and reaches over to Saint’s face, waving it like a prize. 

Saint is -- baffled by the sudden playfulness. This is a man who doesn’t smile unless it’s strained or fake, a man whose jokes are often cruel or rife with gallows humor. 

Deciding not to question it lest he ruins Osiris’s good mood, Saint agrees to take the pastry. With one bite his eyes click off, delighted. His first impression is that he's glad for picking rosewater syrup over honey. His second impression is from his motion sensors alerting him that a body is encroaching on his personal space, but it's just Osiris, of course.

Osiris, whose soft lips press nervously against the hard plates of Saint's mouth.

He doesn’t reactivate his eyes just yet, afraid that he's hallucinating on rosewater or something. He’s thinking that maybe Osiris shoved another piece of the dessert at him because he’s tasting a heavenly sweetness that’s got his receptors firing off in a frenzy.

An eager hand takes him by the chin and pulls him forward so sharply that Osiris’s nose smashes into the spot where Saint’s would be. He kisses Saint with an open mouth and Saint, lacking a tongue or teeth to appease him with, tries to return it the best he can. 

The aggressive enthusiasm, while absolutely wonderful, is a little confusing. In the depths of Saint’s mind where he can still form complete ideas, he tries to piece together obvious signs that Osiris has been attracted to him this whole time. Because for as long as Saint's cautiously flirted with him, Osiris would either ignore the hint or return the sentiment in spades. 

It pains him to do so, but after Saint finally reboots his visuals he puts a firm hand over the bottom half of Osiris’s face and pulls back. He can’t remember having fought a battle more difficult than breaking away from a mouth sweetened with sugar. 

Osiris narrows his eyes. It’d be funny if that look didn’t rev Saint up like a fancy Sparrow. “Can we talk?” he asks. “I’m not opposed to this, but I’d rather not get the wrong idea.” 

Osiris huffs, his breath tickling Saint’s palm and sending little shocks to his brain. “What other meaning could you possibly glean from me kissing you?” he grumbles.

“You’re bored?” Saint offers. He doesn’t mean it to be self-deprecating or judgmental. It isn’t out of the ordinary for Guardians to seek each other out, after all. Better your comrade than a civilian you could lose the next day, and tension among one’s fireteam is never a good thing. 

Saint couldn’t be more wrong evidently; Osiris laughs and shakes his hand away. “Please,” he sneers. “I don’t have time to be bored.”

“But you have time to stay up with me and –-"

“Oh, you complete fool,” Osiris exclaims. He crosses his arms and glares off to the side. With soft black feathers bunched around his collar, he is the perfect image of a haughty crow. “What is it you want from me? A written confession? Shall I send it to you via pigeon?” 

“Only if you forgo the iambic couplets,” Saint fires back. Osiris’s affinity for cryptic poetry is seen as strange even among his teachers.

After a few false starts and a petulant glaring contest, Saint tries again. “Osiris,” he begins, folding his hands in his lap. Of all the ways he imagined this conversation to go, this is by far the most bizarre. Not only does Osiris want him back, he’s mad because Saint stopped him. Hell, Saint’s mad because he stopped, too. The selfish part of him says he should just shut up and kiss Osiris and damn the consequences, but that’s not Saint’s style. When he wants something done, he does it right. 

“I’ve cared for you for years. I don’t want -– I would not be satisfied with just tonight. I’ll admit I didn’t come here to drop a gift at your feet and leave. I wanted to see you. To be with you. And I was thinking --" 

There’s no way Osiris is blushing. It must be pent up Solar energy that he’s about to throw in Saint’s face like a grenade if he continues to give a speech. 

“We could enjoy each other’s company,” Saint finishes in a soft purr. A brave hand reaches for Osiris’s sleeve to coax him closer. Osiris allows the touch, though he also stares blankly back at Saint, unmoving.

“So in short, you wish to sleep with me,” is what Osiris parses from Saint’s heartfelt confession. “On a regular basis. That's what I thought?”

Saint kills the feed to his eyes for a few seconds and tries not to dent the plating on his thigh.

For such a prodigy Osiris is remarkably -- or willfully -- ignorant on matters of the heart. Saint cradles his stupid face in both hands and says, “Please, my friend. Be honest with what you want. I’ve told you what it is I want.”

Osiris opens his mouth, closes it, and sighs. He lays a hand on the center of Saint’s chassis. “I –- care for you as well,” he mumbles, ducking his head. 

“Okay,” Saint says quickly, worried he’s gone too far when Osiris stays quiet. He wishes he had a Ghost’s psionic ability to tell him what someone is thinking. “I’m glad. Thank you.”

Osiris snorts and buries his face against Saint’s neck. “You’re welcome,” he replies sarcastically, bringing to mind Sagira’s catchphrase.

“I didn’t mean to push. I hope --”

“Hush.” Saint hushes. For his obedience, Osiris rewards him with a searing kiss that makes his head spin. He noses at a sensitive part of Saint’s throat and presses another peck there before pulling away. “Will you be staying the night, then?”

“In _here_?”

“Why not? Everyone’s asleep. No one comes in here in the middle of the night.”

It doesn’t come as a shock to Saint that students would stay for long hours to do their work in here, but Saint can’t wrap his head around someone would _sleep_ in this library, comfortable seating or no. He'd be put off by a dragon skeleton that seems to watch his every move, personally. “You’re here in the middle of the night,” he points out. 

“I’m a special case. Are you interested or no? I have other things I could be doing.” That same hand resting on Saint’s chassis teases lower until it brushes his stomach. The unspoken promise of touching him without his clothes in the way is powerful enough for Saint to grasp Osiris’s wrist and lead him under the hem of his sweater. Osiris’s expression is priceless; the cocky, self-assured smile vanishes in favor of his lips parting in silent appreciation as he explores Saint’s chest. 

Maybe fucking someone in a library with a dead Ahamkara watching is a Warlock kink. Saint decides to test his luck. He runs his hands along Osiris’s thighs before slipping them underneath so that he’s palming his ass through far too many layers. Startled, Osiris arches upward, groaning until he’s half-straddling Saint’s lap with legs on either side of his left thigh. Saint hikes Osiris’s robes up to his waist and pins them in place with one hand while the other searches for a button or zipper or whatever complicated mechanism Warlocks use to hold their pants together.

Osiris curls his arms around Saint’s neck and smothers his face into his chest, bucking when Saint jerks his thigh upward for more friction. If anyone were to see them now, it’d look like they’re trying to merge into one being. 

“Would you like a map?” Osiris asks impatiently after a few seconds of Saint relentlessly grinding him into his lap. He sounds delightfully breathless. 

Cheerfully, with his face muffled by the damned robes, Saint replies, “My apologies. I was trying to find your dick, but then I remembered you’re always sucking it.” 

“ _You’d_ be sucking it if I could trust that bear trap of a mouth!”

“You liked putting your tongue into it, didn’t you?” Before Osiris can retort, Saint quits his teasing and plunges his hand down into Osiris’s shorts to wrap it around his cock. Osiris makes a strangled noise, teeth clenched and eyes shut so tight it almost looks painful. 

Saint remembers a second too late how odd it must feel for cold steel and silicone to be stroking one's flesh. It can’t be that nice for a human, and now that Saint is on this train of thought he starts to worry about Osiris experiencing discomfort. He curses inwardly for his lack of foresight.

And then he mentally thanks the elderly woman who, with a wink, had hidden packets of lubricant and contraceptives to Guardians and civilians alike as part of their yearly "you survived exams" packages. It was common for teachers and adopted families to reward their students after such grueling tests. In his haste to catch Osiris before he’d retired for the night, Saint had shoved the goods into his ammunition belt, stuttered a thank you, and fled towards the Warlocks’ wing. 

“Where are you going?” Osiris manages to ask when Saint gently shoves him off into the pillows. Because as fun as it is to have Osiris ride his thigh, Saint really wants to get out of here before anyone catches them. “I’ll be only a minute,” he says, waving a hand to the pile of armor he’d left behind. 

He returns to Osiris disrobing, gazing in wonder at the quick work of his muscles. Saint’s own body is more muscular than many Exo, a quirk that amuses his brethren and earns him more than a few lingering looks from humans and Awoken. 

A golden medallion with a center cutout drops from within one of Osiris’s outermost robes and slaps onto his bare chest. Saint doesn’t recall ever seeing it before and it’s swiftly removed and thrown onto an alarming heap of clothes before he can admire it further. 

Both of them are down to only their pants now, and it’s a wonder to Saint that scholars of the Light find the time to get frisky when it takes them ages to get naked. If it were up to him, he’d have Warlocks forgo underwear altogether and save their Titan partners some agony.

“Stop looking at me like that.” Osiris’s exasperated voice floats to Saint through a haze of lust and impatience. 

“Like what?” Saint inquires, confused. He’d been staring at the curly dark hair trailing from Osiris’s chest to his navel, wondering if it felt the same as the hair on his head. 

Instead of explaining, Osiris steps out of his clothes and kicks them to the side before indicating that Saint do the same. He’s not meeting Saint’s eyes now, and for the first time Saint wonders if he’s shy. 

If it’s true, he doesn’t act like it when Saint pulls his boxers down and Osiris indelicately gapes at his crotch. 

The anxiety returns in full force, and it's armed this time. Saint looks down his body with some trepidation. Was Osiris having second thoughts? 

Osiris blurts out, "I didn’t think -- Exo had --"

Ah. “A new mod,” Saint replies, an eye winking out. Osiris was right to assume that Saint didn’t have a dick. Exo weren’t built with genitalia or literal sex drives. What was the use of a war machine having the capacity for sex when organic lives were at stake? 

Even now, with Exo granted full autonomy and integration into society, mods aren’t required for sex. Wireplay is much more common. But for Exo with human or Awoken partners, it wasn't out of the ordinary for them to try new things, especially if they weren't interested in watching their flesh-and-blood lover squint at a bunch of wiring and try to get them off without accidentally shocking them.

Saint had, perhaps too hopefully, gotten the mod a while back when he'd thought that Osiris was inviting him to an impromptu romp in his dorm. It turned out that when Osiris said "I want to show you something," he really meant he wanted to show Saint what a fossilized Cabal skull looked like. 

Maybe that's what Osiris was into. Saint didn't judge, much. He was just stuck in the old ways of love that had nothing to do with literal skeletons.

At least now his hopefulness doesn't seem to be without merit. Osiris’s initial surprise is smoothed over by a hard stare at Saint’s dick that would make another man blush. He’s even got that little dip in his brow from when he’s trying to puzzle something out, the one Saint thinks is cute. “Do you get direct feedback with this?” he asks, beckoning Saint over with a curious frown. 

Saint obliges him, lying back against the pillows again while Osiris kneels between his legs. Without warning and with more determination than is warranted, he bends down and takes Saint into his mouth. 

Saint almost fails to cut his modulator off in time. An aborted shout echoes in the otherwise peaceful library. He uselessly shoves a hand over his mouth, but the damage is already done. Osiris doesn’t look up, doesn’t stop the wicked magic he’s doing with his tongue. What little he can’t swallow is tended to by his thumb and forefinger caressing the base of Saint’s cock, igniting miniature fires under his plating. 

His heels dig into the carpet as he tries not to flatten Osiris between powerful thighs. Osiris, for his part, doesn’t seem to notice or care that Saint is about to be explode from sensory overload. No wonder this damn thing cost him close to 10,000 Glimmer. 

When Osiris pulls off to take a few gulps of air, he whispers, a little wrecked, “You do,” eyes glittering. He looks thrilled in the way that he usually did when discovering something new.

Saint, panting, nods his assent. He could’ve _told_ Osiris that before he decided to take matters into his own mouth. 

Osiris picks up the packet of lubricant that Saint dropped, stares at the label with an unreadable expression, and tears it open with a snort. “‘Pomefig-flavored’, huh?”

“ _What?_ ” 

“How sweet of you to choose my favorite fruit. You are a paragon of romance.” 

“Perhaps I should rub it all over you, see if it makes you less salty.” Saint watches Osiris coat one of his fingers in the lubricant with the practiced air of a man who’s used to being in charge.

Not this time, he thinks. 

Only Osiris can retain dignity with someone’s fingers in his ass. He shivers on top of Saint but his voice remains steady while he bosses him around -- _I’m not going to break, right there, there, weren’t you in a hurry?_

Saint entertains the idea of making Osiris suck him off if it’ll keep him quiet, but the impulse vanishes as quickly as it came when Osiris sinks down onto Saint’s cock. The two of them groan in unison; it’s the one time this evening they’ve been in complete agreement.

He’s starting to see what all the fuss is about these mods. Nothing else would’ve given him the same satisfaction as seeing and feeling Osiris writhe in his lap. He braces himself above Saint, hands on the wall, chin tipped up towards the ceiling. 

Saint’s palms attempt to rest on Osiris’s waist and anchor him, but he draws back in surprise at the scorching heat roiling under his skin. His thermoreceptors identify it as hot Light blazing a trail through Osiris’s body, likely searching for an outlet. 

Intrigued, Saint tugs one of Osiris’s hands away from the wall and flattens it on his chassis for direct contact. He has very little experience with Light in the bedroom -- or library, in their case -- but he knows enough to relieve some of the pressure building up in his partner. Carefully, Saint directs his own Light into a concentrated pool of energy; Osiris jerks, eyes wide, when he feels a soothing warmth blossom under his fingertips like a rift he’d summoned.

Osiris pants a soft “ah, Saint” with something close to devotion. Clever fingers trace incomprehensible marks on Saint’s chassis and the next thing Saint knows, he’s rearing up from an unseen force that brushes the base of his spine.

But there’s nothing behind him save for some pillows and the carpet, so what could be --

Osiris’s Light eagerly seeks Saint’s core like a beacon, rushing like floodwater from a heated palm into his chassis. At the same time, pure energy coils greedily around his mechanical heart, the wires and screws that make up his frame, and it even nudges teasingly at his ass.

Saint doesn’t know which way to thrust -- up into Osiris, or back into the Light that is somehow touching him with an invisible hand. He catches Osiris’s eye, the man trying and failing to look innocent. “Where did you,” Saint croaks, the rest of his sentence lumped in his throat.

Osiris chuckles, breathless. He drops his other arm to lean on the pillow next to Saint’s head, angling his face closer for a kiss. “Books.”

Saint takes back every unkind thing he's thought about this library.

He squeezes Osiris’s waist and lifts his hand from his chassis to press a tender kiss there, and Osiris’s smirk flickers. Now that Saint has felt Osiris’s Light in a place he’d never expected, he can say with complete authority that it’s a blush heating his skin and _not_ Solar energy. 

The Light -- Osiris -- gently circles Saint’s hole as if seeking permission, while the physical Osiris continues to ride him like he was born for it. If Saint thought his cock down a wet, warm throat was pleasant, it pales in comparison to being touched everywhere at once by a hungry force. He whispers “Go ahead,” and though Osiris makes no indication of having heard him, his Light jumps at the opportunity to move inside Saint. 

Suddenly those pornographic documentaries he’d borrowed make a lot of sense. He'd thought Awoken and humans were just over dramatic and loud for showmanship. But even without a prostate and less receptors overall, Saint finds himself on the edge of some precipice that frightens as much as it excites him. He’s determined to find out what happens if he allows Osiris to push him off. 

For now, though, he has to focus on his partner instead of letting his mind spiral into countless possibilities. Osiris has his head bowed and eyes shut, bottom lip chewed in concentration as he pumps himself up and down. Saint’s eyes are glued to the sweat shining on his chest, the hair falling into his eyes from effort. He runs a gentle hand through it and growls when Osiris bumps back against his palm, daring him to pull it. So he does.

Osiris’s yowl sends tremors throughout Saint’s body that are only compacted by the nonstop probing of his Light. He only wishes the hair were a bit longer so that he could wrap it around his fingers and really yank Osiris forward, but tugging it this way is nice too.

They freeze when the sound of boot steps echo outside in the hall. Immediately, Saint prays to the Traveler that the visitor doesn’t enter the library, or if they do they completely ignore the love-struck idiots going at it in the corner. 

He’s not so lucky. Two Warlocks clad in the green-and-grey garb of the Iron Lords enter, one shaking with merry laughter and the other grumbling and trying to dodge roving hands. Between the spaces in the bookshelves, Saint identifies them as Lords Timur and Felwinter. His eyes meet Osiris’s and if they weren’t in such dire straits, he’d burst into laughter at the abject horror on his face. 

Osiris, sensing imminent death, swiftly covers Saint’s mouth and glares hotly down at him. This only makes Saint’s shoulders shake even harder, but he’s otherwise quiet.

“-- ordered him to meet us in the Courtyard, and what does that brat do --”

“I told you, my dear Felwinter, Osiris isn’t one for festivities --”

“It was not an invitation!” Felwinter snaps. “Oh, I detest coming here. No one has any respect for --”

“I’m sure Osiris has an excellent reason for not wanting to bask in your radiant presence so soon after you threw him through a wall,” Timur returns gleefully. 

Osiris flinches when Saint taps his own fingertips against his lips and then rolls his hips upward to bottom out inside him. Brown eyes widen in shock as Osiris automatically pushes back down on Saint’s cock, twitching. 

Saint honestly can’t explain what’s gotten into him. Hysteria from the fear of getting caught by two of the most respected Guardians of all time, probably. 

The two of them stare daggers with their hands silencing the other, Osiris in mounting fury and Saint blinking back at him like all's right in the world. Osiris’s Light resumes its torment, but this time it’s extra slow and cruel, forcing Saint to bend his other arm back and touch himself for relief. 

“Is this the journal you’re looking for?” Timur inquires from what sounds like miles away. Saint can’t break eye contact with Osiris for all the Glimmer in the universe. He’s entranced by his own reflection in those lovely eyes, even as they’re narrowed in suspicion at him. 

It seems unfair in retrospect for him to think Osiris's kinks are strange when _his_ biggest turn-on is, apparently, getting him worked up.

“That’s the one.” Felwinter sighs. “The boy’s notes are solid, at least.”

“Perhaps we’ll find him in the morning, writing a thesis on just how much of an asshole you are.”

“Timur, this is the difference between your methods and mine.” Felwinter spins on his heel to march out of the library. “Whereas your students regularly goof off --”

The irreverent Lord trips on his robes and narrowly avoids smacking into a table when he hears a whimper from the darkness. 

Osiris’s eyes close in mortal pain. _Alright_ , Saint thinks. _This one’s on me_.

He twists his body to fling Osiris into the pile of pillows at his side in effort to hide him from sight, then immediately throws the blanket over him. Someday, if he lives through the encounter, Saint will look back on this and laugh, especially when Osiris flails for a second and then flattens himself onto the carpet. 

The Traveler is a merciful god on this night. Because as soon as Felwinter tries to peer around the Ahamkara display, Timur grips his elbow and drags him back to the automatic doors. “Hurry up,” he complains. “You promised me a dance and you’ve retrieved your book. Let’s go.”

“I said no such --”

The doors slide closed after them, and when their arguing fades into silence, Saint sighs loudly.

Then he squawks when a fist seizes his throat and he’s face to face with an enraged Osiris. “What -- the actual _fuck_ \--” Osiris snarls.

Saint can’t help it now that they’re safe: he laughs. He laughs for an incredibly long time because he doesn’t need air, and because the threat of strangulation is nothing to him. Osiris releases him and buries his face into his hands in disbelief. 

“I’m sorry,” Saint gasps. He’s sincere, even if he doesn’t sound like it at all. “I don’t know what came over me.”

“I once thought you a virtuous man, but now I see that you’re just a fiend.”

Saint pries Osiris’s hands away from his face and kisses his knuckles in apology. Osiris squints at him, doubtful, but the frosty treatment only lasts for a few seconds before he deigns him with a kiss of his own. Saint wraps his arms around Osiris’s midsection and lifts him back to sit atop him. “Forgive me?” he asks.

“We’ll see.” Osiris sniffs as he shifts in Saint’s lap. His Light, somehow possessing a reproachful air like its wielder, decides to touch him again. He can almost sense the threat of “be good, or else”.

Relieved, Saint tugs Osiris down so they’re chest to chest and rubs his back, eager to show that he’s serious about pleasing him. He blinks when Osiris grunts “wait” and pulls away to the pillows next to him. “Let’s switch,” he offers. 

Saint obliges him, thinking he must be tired. He climbs onto Osiris and hooks the backs of his knees over his shoulders after remembering this position from his -- studies. 

With Saint directly over him, Osiris turns his gaze toward the ceiling and swallows. “Okay.”

He practically bows off the floor when Saint eases back into him and fists the blanket with tense fingers. Saint leans forward until they’re mere inches away from each other, until he can feel Osiris twist and shake in his arms. He just… wants to stay like this for as long as possible. 

“As possible” arrives too soon for Saint’s liking. Because after so much stress and flirting and stressful flirting, the tiniest, sweetest kiss from Osiris makes his hips jerk upward of their own accord, earning a sharp cry of “ _Saint!_ ” and a moan that will stay with him until he’s nothing more than a weathered husk. Osiris unravels beneath him, and after one final groan he comes in hot spurts.

Saint’s Light vibrates within his core in what he can only describe as the culmination of too much stimuli and processes running at once, and his vision terminates for a few minutes. The last time he experienced a full-blown emergency shutdown was from a session with Tallulah where she overloaded his circuits from a well-thrown Arc knife. It was akin to someone jamming a fork in an electrical socket, if that someone was a mortified Hunter and the socket was her best friend. This is like that, but painless and absolutely worth doing again in the near future. 

He comes back to himself lying on his side with Osiris’s hands gripping his face in worry, and laughs weakly. “I’m okay,” he wheezes over a hiss of static. 

“I was about to call your Ghost,” Osiris mutters. 

“Please don’t. Joan doesn’t need more stress in her life.” 

They lie together in a lazy embrace, Saint pulling the blanket over Osiris’s body when the sweat on his skin cools and makes him shiver. He tucks his head under Osiris’s chin, humming in contentment. 

“Our patron Saint,” Osiris says a moment or two later, fond. “Lying in ecstasy --”

“In exhaustion, you mean.”

“Defeated by the mighty Osiris, student of Felwinter of the Iron Lords.”

“I think one of my fans overheated and needs to be replaced. You’re going to pay for that, right?”

Osiris kisses the top of Saint’s head, smirking. “Will it be cheaper than your mod?”


End file.
